


House Hunters

by 2SpaceGays



Category: Batwoman (Comic), DCU (Comics)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:36:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2SpaceGays/pseuds/2SpaceGays
Summary: Three walls are better than none.





	House Hunters

The key glides smoothly into the lock, the sleek, aluminium door swinging open without a hitch, or even a creak – nothing like the door to my apartment, which requires a particular twist of the wrist, and sometimes a shove, before it deigns to loudly permit anyone inside. This one promises easy entry, even when bogged down by the frustration and exhaustion of a twelve hour shift plus overtime. It’s also thick enough to be soundproof, and, like the windows, ‘bulletproof’. The realtor has shot me a pointed sidelong glance as she confessed that one to me, as if that was supposed to be a selling point for a cop, as if I’m planning to withstand a shootout in this new apartment. I hadn’t bothered to ask, or to explain the misnomer – nothing is _really_ bulletproof. Not against every type of bullet, anyway.

Except, I suppose, Batwoman’s uniform is. Batman’s too, I’m guessing.

Maybe Robin’s, Batgirl’s...

Superman.

Wonder Woman?

I’m not clear on that one, and I make a mental note to ask Kate about it, later.

Nevertheless, unless the door is made out of DEO tech or alien wood fibres, I’m positive it is _not_ bulletproof.

But, unlike many of the other places we’ve looked at over the last few weeks, the outside _has_ been granted the rare Kate Kane stamp of approval.

Now, she just needs to stamp the interior.

I watch her face as she wanders through the threshold. Sensing the motion, the lights turn on automatically, chasing the shadows out of the huge open space.

“Tall ceiling,” Kate murmurs, head bobbing in what I _think_ is endorsement. I’ve noticed that despite the layout of her recently-destroyed home, which hadn’t even had a proper _bedroom_ , my fiancé is _picky_. High maintenance, I would say, except I hate that term, and I had known exactly what I was getting into when we had first started seeing each other. That apartment, like the bulletproof door, was a misnomer.

Personally, I would have preferred something simple. A house, maybe, with two or three bedrooms, a couple of bathrooms, a nice big yard. But Kate has resolutely turned down every one we’ve been to – and even some _before_ then. Short of designing and building her own place, she won’t agree. And _that_ would take time she would rather not spend in my little apartment. _Sorry, Mags._

So, we compromised. An apartment now, and a house later.

First, we have to agree on one. I like this one; it checks all the boxes: it’s downtown, close to GCPD headquarters; it has roof access, from which Kate can leave for patrol; enough room and power for our offices; a good-sized bedroom for Jamie. It’s also modern enough for Kate’s tastes, and the bedroom has _walls_ – albeit, only three of them.

I’m cautiously optimistic that this might be the one, and prepared to do some convincing when Kate hesitates.

“Take a look at the view,” I suggest, gesturing her towards the one feature that had really sold me on the place – those huge windows, and the view of Gotham beyond them. Now, the skyline is lit up beautifully, pinpricks of white light shining from all around, the towering buildings silhouetted against the black sky, the dark water of Gotham harbour just visible where the light reflects off its rippling surface. 

My city – _our_ city, is breathtaking from this distance.

In the reflection on the window, I catch Kate smiling, then, inexplicably, grinning. I hope she’s realising the same thing.

“I forget – you don’t get to see Gotham like this, from up high.”

I shake my head, “Not usually.”

She breathes in, breathes out, and I wonder what’s going through that head of hers.

I’m about to suggest we look at the other rooms, when she lets me in, “Let’s buy it.”

My jaw goes slack; I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We’ve been inside hardly two minutes, have seen only a small part of the space, and meticulous, high maintenance Kate Kane, who has already turned down more than a dozen places, has already made up her mind.

All my carefully-constructed arguments in favour of this one disintegrate.

I start to protest, baffled, “You haven’t even—“

“I don’t need to see anymore. It’s perfect.”

“But—“

“Mags,” she turns to me, taking both my hands into hers, fingers laced between us. Her expression is serious, her eyebrows raised as if she thinks she needs to convince _me_ , instead of the other way around, “We’ve been looking for months. Everything is either too small, too old, too far from your work, or won’t let me do mine. Or has one of the hundreds of other tiny problems I’ve said no to.” She gives me a guilty look that says she knows just how difficult she’s made things, “But this one meets all our criteria. And all those little things are beside the point. I want to be with you, and I don’t care if that’s in the sewers or in a penthouse – but I’d rather a penthouse.”

“So,” she continues determinedly, “Let’s buy it and start our lives together.”

I try to be relieved rather than ticked off, charmed rather than annoyed – all that time spent looking, and _now_ she decides to make the romantic gesture.

Well, I had known _that_ when I agreed to marry her, too.

We turn back to Gotham’s skyline, and she leans her head on my shoulder. “Besides,” Kate starts, her voice hinting at mischief that almost has me groaning before she even says the words, “Anything I don’t like, we can renovate.”

 


End file.
